Stay With Me
by Aleize Claire
Summary: They retrieved a stolen heart from a greedy millionaire and a fifteen year old boy was going to live, but Nate can't celebrate. He can't sleep and he can't forget. Who better to save him, than her?


_Allow me to start by saying, this is my first Leverage story, it is unedited and was typed from my phone. I take full responsibility for any formatting issues. Leverage is not owned by me, I don't know who holds the copyright, it is not me. With that being said, I was gripped by Sam Smith's song, Stay With Me and I thought it was perfect for Nate and Sophie in the aftermath of the Steal My Heart Job. Enjoy!_

_With Love,_

_AlexandriaZ_

"Sophie," Nate's voice cracked like gravel on glass. His hand, still damp with post-coitial sweat; Gripped her wrist anchoring her to his bed. "I...can't...please I know it's selfish and-no strings attached- -but please don't leave me tonight." If the eyes were truly the window to the soul, she could see that his was completely shattered.

"Nate," she protested softly, torn between the betterment of his soul and the safety of her heart.

"We won't-We don't have to do anything else. Just," he took a breath in an effort to keep the shake from his voice. "Please stay. That boy-you were right, Soph. It was too personal-I-looked at him and-I saw Sam."

"Oh, Nate." The two syllables crossed her lips in barely a whisper. Unconsciously she moved further away from the edge of the bed. His thumb traced the underside of her wrist, his fingers settled on the pulse point. As if assuring himself that she was really there. Reminding him that his rock was holding steady.

"Over and over, I saw my son." More gravel filled his voice, "I saw the things he would never be and I couldn't- -Sophie- -I couldn't let those parents live the way I've had to." His eyes brimmed and he fought to keep his composure.

Sophie took a shaky breath, the pieces of his tortured soul that he tried so hard to keep in the shadows: were finally seeing the light of day. She gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "Sam would be so proud of what you did tonight, Nate."

"If what I did was so good, why does it hurt so much?" Tears slipped down his cheeks, he hurried to wipe them away.

"Don't do that," she abolished gently. She caught the hand wiping the evidence of his heartache. Replacing his hand with hers. The warmth of his cheek bled into her. Her fingertips catching the tears as they fell against his Five O'clock shadow.

"You can put whiskey in your coffee all day, everyday but it won't fix this." She pulled her arm around his waist.

"I need to stop." He took another swipe at his eyes, "it's not a good look. I'm sorry. I don't want to use you-I am using you."

"Grief doesn't look good on anyone, Nate." She reminded him, "Everything you've tried to bury-"

"Is coming back with a vengeance." He finished her thought.

"Stay here." She crawled off the bed.

"You're not going to make me tea, are you?" Nate quipped.

"We missed tea time, I'm afraid." She moved towards the closet standing on her toes, she brushed the high shelves.

"Soph..." Nate cautioned, "what are you doing?"

"Nate," She. said breathlessly emerging from the closet with her hands on her hips, "where is it?"

"Where is what?"

Her accent clipped with fear that in an effort to end is pain, he may have destroyed the only things left of his son "Sam's box, Nate. Where is it?"

"Right here." He leaned off the bed and dragged the box out into the open. "Will you-"

Suddenly cautions, afraid his sudden vulnerability might drive her away. Part of him hoped that it would, the other part the selfish part of him; the part that drank coffee laced with whiskey: knew it wouldn't.

"Will you open it?"

A sigh of relief crossed her lips, "of course." She knelt on the floor, the hem of his T-shirt rose over her hips as she lifted the sacred box onto the bed.

"This is...well this one's my favorite." Nate said pulling a worn, crayon drawn picture from the box. There was no mistaking the grief stricken pride in his voice.

"It's beautiful..." Sophie ran her fingertips against the hand drawn portrait of a healthy five year old Sam, sandwiched between his smiling parents.

"You all look so happy."

"We were."

"It's beautiful," she repeated with conviction.

Nate chuckled, "It's umm-it's not Picasso."

"No, it's your Picasso," she corrected.

His fingers played with the bottom -right corner of the page. Sam, age 4.5

"It hung on the fridge until the day he-Sophie, you don't have to listen to this. You don't have to do any of this." Hurriedly he reached for the rest of the pictures that littered the bed. They were relics of his past, of a life he would never get back: and she didn't need to see them.

"Nate, stop." She ordered, she caught his wrist, one look in his eyes and she knew he was trying to make up for his fragility. Carefully she lifted his fingers one by one from the crumpled paper. He released a breath, her thumb grazed his palm tenderly coaxing his hand away from the paper.

With care and gentle hands she placed the papers back in the box. One by one, every photograph, every drawing every memory was packed away in the order as it was removed. He could only watch, mesmerized by the care she had shown him. For him and for Sam.

She slid off the bed, the hardwood floor seemed colder against her feet than before. Sliding the box back into its place, she returned to Nate.

Her head fell against his chest, against his heart.

"Sophie, thank you for staying." His arm curled around her.

"You can't use me, Nate. Not when I'm exactly where I want to be."


End file.
